The last time I moved into a neighborhood, I was a newlywed. Now, I’m nearly retired.
My Mrs. Sacks from Coplay, who taught me lessons in gardening and friendship, has been replaced by Sonja, also with hair of white and a wealth of local lore (in 1960 her father built the house I live in.)
We live on a quiet cul-de-sac called Milmar, named after Millard and Margaret Schreffler, who sold the land to Sonja’s father and used to live in the BIG white house on Main Street across from the Methodist Church.
Yesterday the main event on the circle was watching the West Penn Power guy ride his bucket lift up to change the bulb in the street light. This morning, it was trash and recycling collection. Last week, it was the drifts of samaras.
The woman who owns the house behind Sonja’s and mine has two multi-stemmed maples. She’s still in Florida so she has no idea what a ruckus her trees are causing. Sonja says the woman’s husband dug them off the mountain that shelters us in this Nittany Valley, a place called Pleasant Gap. (In my high school days, kids referred to our locale as Penn State, the State Pen (Penitentiary), and then, Pleasant Gap.)
Well, I was sitting in my home office. I looked up from the computer screen and out the window, and saw a flotilla of dragonflies coasting over the clothesline and soaring up toward the roof. But no, not dragonflies. They were maple helicopters, aka ’copters, whirlybirds, twisters, or whirligigs. Botanically speaking, these winged seeds are called maple samaras.
They land on my lawn, the front deck, on Sonja’s and my driveways, and, smackdab in the middle, my raised vegetable beds. Later, raking them carefully out of my raised beds, I spotted Sonja and sarcastically muttered, “I should start a maple plantation.”
“Years ago, I offered my grandkids a penny for each one they picked up off the driveway,” Sonja said, shaking her head.
She didn’t have any takers.
So, each day for a few weeks she and Jack use a leaf blower to clear their drive. I use a push broom for the driveway and deck, not as often as they. There must be a silver lining, I thought to myself. And sure enough, I read an article that said maple samaras are edible—not just for squirrels, finches and chickadees—but people.
So, I gathered a half quart of the papery wings, sat down at the kitchen table, and squeezed the end until the nutlet popped out. A good half-hour later I had about a third-cup of green seeds.
“They kind of look like small pistachios,” an uncharacteristically optimistic comment from my son Richard who spent several weeks helping his mom move too many boxes and crates into her new abode.
Maple samaras are a good source of protein and starch, and, when boiled, kind of taste like garden peas, I reported.
So, I boiled my harvest, placed them in a custard cup with a spoon, and offered them as a side dish to dinner.
We both tried some.
“So why do people eat these things?” Richard asked.
“Because we can,” I replied. “They have a bitter aftertaste, but if you got lost in the woods, they’d do.”
I considered sharing my culinary experience with Sonja but had second thoughts. I probably should live here a couple of months before I let her know how “earthy” her new neighbor can be. Laurie Lynch
Fleur-de-Blog 